


Rules of Heroism

by laurashapiro



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Episode Related, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-01-10
Updated: 2000-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-02 02:17:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurashapiro/pseuds/laurashapiro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Orison, Scully has some shit to deal with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rules of Heroism

My knees are like rubber and my hands are still shaking as I throw a   
few extra items into my overnight bag. A Jane Austen novel, my   
warmest socks, a bottle of Flexeril. All forms of escape, comfort, or   
anesthesia. Something to ground or warm or numb me, though right   
now it's hard to imagine ever feeling anything again. Anything but   
this...cold, nauseated horror. Helplessness.

And at this subvocalization my stomach twists and I have to grip   
the footboard of my bed and swallow hard. I will not throw up again. I   
will not. I will not.

Mulder's hand on my shoulder is too hot, too soft, and to let it stay   
there is to be weak, to let him see that weakness. Tears I cannot allow   
push tingling hot at my sinuses. Swallow. I will not. I will not.

I zip up the bag, throw my coat over my shoulders. I'm ready.

No words pass between us as he drives the familiar route, driven how   
many hundred times before? It occurs to me as we approach his   
building that I no longer have any idea what proper Bureau procedure   
would be in this situation -- would the agent in question be taken to a   
hotel, under guard? Back to HQ for further debriefing? Hospital? Jail?   
Though my weapon was confiscated in the course of routine forensics,   
I am not made to suffer any of these other indignities. Always, in or   
after a crisis, back to Mulder's apartment we go. It's been the scene of   
many wordless healings, now, and many harder things. How odd that   
this dark, grim little place can seem so safe to me, this place where   
we've been bugged, threatened, shot at.

My stomach lurches again, and for the first time I wonder what will   
happen to me if this doesn't go away. What if it never stops?   
Throughout my career, my life, my self, death has been my companion,   
murder my raison d'être. What will I be if I can no longer face these   
things?

A bizarre giggle escapes me, and I feel Mulder's concerned glance. He,   
too, has killed, and yet he works, he...functions, and though few would   
call him normal, none would question his competence, his --   
masculinity? Is that the word I want? I have joined the ultimate Boys'   
Club now; medical school, Bureau training, and field work merely   
warm-up acts for the show-stopper: I have killed a man.

I have killed a man, and I have never been more aware of being a   
woman.

I want to huddle in a corner and sob, and shake, and scream, and be   
held, and disappear into oblivion where there are no questions, only   
blessed peace and the blurred consciousness of being minutely cared   
for. Mom, I'm sick today. Can I stay home from school?

But I let Donnie Pfaster do that to me once before.

"Scully?"

I blink. My eyes are dry. The car has stopped. I do not know how long   
we've been sitting here. I unbuckle my seat belt, pick up my bag. His   
hand on my back itches like an inflamed mosquito bite. Get it off me.   
Get it off.

It's warm here, stuffy with the familiar smells: leather, coffee, beer,   
sweat, Mulder's own sharpness made soft in the diffuse air. Light   
streams in through the adhesive-scabbed window, and for the   
thousandth time I think that I have to tell him about Goo Gone. Absurdly.

Mulder clanks in the kitchen, opening cabinets, filling the kettle. He   
knows me, and it feels like a presumptuous intimacy, unasked for,   
unwanted. Not for the first time, but I'd thought lately that I was past   
this. Why am I so angry with him?

"Chamomile or apple spice? Oh, and I think there's some red zinger..."

"Chamomile." But there's no breath behind it, no sound. I'll have to   
make the word again. I clear my throat, remember to breathe.   
"Chamomile."

"Coming right up." Damn him. Damn him for giving me what I want.   
Damn him for taking care of me. And then I know, the way I knew   
Donnie Pfaster would come after me again.

I haul myself up from the couch, bones sore, feeling the bruises now,   
the gaping of sliced skin under the bandages. Present myself in his tiny   
kitchen, trying to imagine how he sees me, arms akimbo, his Scully-in-  
a-snit, minus the quizzical eyebrow. I can't quite manage it right now.

"Mulder. What made you come to my apartment last night?"

Surprised. Not expecting this question, or not expecting this Scully?

"You didn't answer your phone."

He'd told me that. "But why did you call?"

The kettle boiled, a frenetic rumbling. He'd removed the whistle ages   
ago to be spared its shrieking. He poured, domestic, using the time. "I   
had a feeling."

Handed me the cup, the tea bag string wound around the handle. He   
knows everything about me. I know everything about him. We tell   
each other so little.

"And you've never apologized to me for any of those feelings, have   
you?" I hate the way I sound, hate the way he frowns, bewildered. I'm   
angry that he doesn't know what I mean, angry that he can't read my   
mind, angry at myself for expecting him to. Scully, you're being a   
woman again. Stop it.

"What do you want me to say?"

"Mulder, I apologized to you yesterday for a feeling. For feeling that   
there were spiritual aspects to this case, and daring to make a   
connection that science couldn't support. Well, I want to withdraw that   
apology."

My fingers are red hot around the steaming mug, knuckles white. I've   
sloshed some tea on my hand, scalding it. I put the mug down on the   
counter and Mulder reaches for my hand, to soothe which pain I'm not   
sure. I jerk my hand away.

"I'm tired of justifying my faith to you, and I'm tired of the disrespect   
with which you treat it."

His eyes are tired, but gentle. I feel like a total shit, but I've come this   
far.

"Scully, you need to take comfort where you can. I would never --"

"But you do, Mulder. You mock it. You mock me." You think I'm   
weak. No matter what I do, I'll always be weaker than you. Who the   
hell is saying that? Thinking that? That can't be me. I want to scream   
and bang my fists on the floor, a little girl having a tantrum.

"Scully," he reaches for me again, and I don't let him touch. "Scully." I   
turn my back. What am I doing here? "I called you because I heard the   
song on the radio."

And I don't know whether to be thrilled or terrified by the implications   
of that. I'm *right*. I was *right*. Oh my god.

And I know he's watching my back for some sign, some hint that I   
understand.

"I heard that song, and I just thought...I was afraid you -- I called you.   
You didn't answer. I didn't think. I headed to your place before I could   
talk myself out of it."

He believed me. He believes me.

"I know the feeling." And I believe you, Mulder, more often than you   
think.

I turn back to look at him. He looks so damned earnest, with that face   
of his, and I feel a little smile squeeze out of me. Guilt follows fast, the   
tip of the iceberg, this little measured amount just for my snarkiness.

"Is it too soon for me to apologize again?"

"Sorry, partner. The Rules of Heroism say that no hero shall apologize   
for anything until at least three weeks after doing in the villain." I shiver   
a little at that, let him take my hand this time, let him hold me. Hold   
me. Just hold me and shut the hell up.

"I thought heroes never apologized, period."

"Oh, you're right. My mistake." I can feel his smile in his chest, smell it   
almost. "Scully, you...if you want to take a shower, or lots of   
them...whatever you need..." He doesn't say, I've been there, I know   
what it's like. But it's in the room with us.

"It'll take time, Mulder. But I'm not going to go Lady Macbeth on you   
tonight, if that's what you're worried about."

"I'm not worried about a thing, Scully."

It will be a long while before I can say the same. But I can feel the   
exhaustion pulling me down, promising a brief respite from the   
questions, the fear. I will be safe here, for a little while. And I'll have   
some time to try to convince myself that I have nothing to apologize   
for.

 

END


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